


It's The Great Thanksgiving Martian, Wally West!

by oh_demoted_short_one, those_painted_wings



Category: Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gen, No Angst, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 14:43:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20725919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_demoted_short_one/pseuds/oh_demoted_short_one, https://archiveofourown.org/users/those_painted_wings/pseuds/those_painted_wings
Summary: Prompt: Wally, jealous of J’onn spending Christmas at the Kent household demands that J’onn join him for Thanksgiving the following year.“Hey MM! I was in the area,” he winces - yeah man, just ‘in the area’, in space, on an orbital station full of superheroes - “and I was wondering if you were really busy right now?”





	It's The Great Thanksgiving Martian, Wally West!

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed something in this fandom that doesn't hurt, okay? So Wings let me have caffeine and set me loose on Word. You're welcome.

Sometime in early August, Wally stops by J’onn’s apartment on the Watchtower intent on taking advantage of a standing invitation to lunch. He’s been holding off just in case trying to cash in would prompt J’onn to change his mind, given how others tend to react to Wally’s eating habits. Meaning, inhaling everything in sight. Not that, uh, ravenous consumption is even uncommon in the hero world – Clark can put away four pizzas easy, and Bruce is no slouch either; that guy can carb out with the best of them. Part of his mission to prove metas don’t have the corner on anything, probably.

The first time Wally accepted Dick’s invitation to dinner at Wayne Manor, the spread Alfred put out boggled him. It makes sense that speedsters go through food like fire through newspaper, but up until then Wally had sort of overlooked the fact that the Bats couldn’t possibly be operating on a 2,000-a-day type diet, what with the demands of engaging in violent and prolonged exercise regimens on the nightly. The disappointed face Alfred delivered when he realized Wally was trying to hold back out of politeness - well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

J’onn waits for Wally’s knock before he opens the door, which is kind of him, observing the mores of the planet that he’s on. But Wally does wonder if he ever misses the fluidity of interacting with other telepaths. When, presumably, he could open the door and start the conversation at the half-way point, saying, “I think Italian would suit, today.” But no, Wally self-admonishes, you’re no telepath, you’re getting ahead of yourself.

“Flash, to what do I owe the honor?” It was odd, in the beginning, getting used to someone talking like that, formal and precise. But J’onn somehow makes it emotive too, which keeps him from seeming cheesy or overly distant. Wally likes it, but he could never pull it off.

“Hey MM! I was in the area,” he winces - yeah man, just ‘in the area’, in space, on an orbital station full of superheroes - “and I was wondering if you were really busy right now?”

He barely waits for J’onn to shake his head, doesn’t even wait for him to say anything before gently pushing his way into the room and plowing onward with the script he hadn’t spent any time reciting in his head, nope. Gotta strike while the iron is hot, isn’t that what they say?

“So you know how a couple weeks ago you said we should get lunch sometime? How’s now sound?” There, out. He asked and now he can take his lumps, go to the cafeteria, and eat his feelings in the shape of mini cheeseburgers and Meat Loaf Surprise™.

To avoid looking J’onn in the face, he meanders around the room, meandering being for him a good clip somewhere between the average speed-walk and cardio-jog. Thank all that J’onn never seems to have any trouble keeping up and simply pivots with him.

“Actually, Flash,” is all J’onn has to say for Wally to feel his shoulders start to curl. Boy, here it comes. He fondles a little laser cut crystal Diana brought back from her trip chaperoning some girl scouts to Disney World, pretends to examine the way it refracts in the station’s too-bright lights. “I would like nothing more.”

What.

“It’s been too long since we kept each other’s company.”

Double what.

Wally fumbles the bauble in shock, sets it firmly back on the shelf with a too-loud ‘clack!’ and spins around in the curve of a single motion. He’s probably grinning like a total idiot, but he can’t see it so he doesn’t really care.

“Really?! Dude! I mean, yeah, this is awesome, let’s go!”

He takes J’onn in, eyes drawn to the small smirk pulling at his lips and his stupid cut-glass cheekbones. Do Martians even have bone structure? Or is his face just, like, shaped that way? He supposes he can ask over lunch.

Over J’onn’s shoulder Wally can see through the open door of the closet. Hanging at the back, actually the only garment in the closet, is a pretty textbook ugly Christmas sweater. It ranks with the wardrobe of one Barry Allen, unapologetic keeper of the title ‘worst dressed at any and all Allen-West holiday parties.’ And he needs to see J’onn wearing it, like, yesterday!

Before he can find a way to tactfully say that, he realizes that he’s already blurted it out verbatim under the watchful eyes of J’onn, the gods, and probably Batman. At least when J’onn turns around to retrieve the sweater he (probably) can’t see Wally clapping his hands to the top of his skull in despair. Wally really doesn’t know much about Martian biology, so he can’t rule out the possibility of eyes-in-back-of-head. 

When J’onn turns back around, bearing the sweater like a terrible festive flag, Wally can see in the better lighting how truly hideous it is. Handmade, certainly - you can’t buy stuff with such convoluted crochet designs, he’s sure. And in such eye watering shades of red and green, clashing with J’onn’s natural colouring.

J’onn’s smiles softly when he holds it out for Wally to take, which he does, hesitantly. He almost doesn’t want to, because it looks itchy as hell.  


“I spent Christmas with Superman and his parents. His mother was quite insistent that I ‘join in the holiday cheer’ and refused to accept the garment back. I will admit, I’m very fond of it. It’s very soft, is it not?” And okay, sue him for judging its texture prematurely, it’s honestly one of the softest things Wally’s ever felt. Which is about when he realizes he’s got the sleeve pressed to his cheek.  


“This is so nice dude, I’m pretty jealous. You got a taste of the good ol’ American dream visiting the Kent farm, amirite?” He wasn’t lying about the little prickle of jealousy, wondering what sorts of things J’onn got up to with Clark. Did Mrs. Kent make her pot roast? Did J’onn like the pot roast? Did he get to meet Streaky, a.k.a. Objectively Best Cat? He loves seeing J’onn experience human, or at least Terran, culture.  


J’onn takes the sweater back to the closet and shuts the door with a soft sigh. “I do wonder what other things I might learn about my new home from the celebrations held here on Earth. Most of them are private affairs though. Family gatherings and the like.”  


Then Wally has what must be the best idea he’s ever had. He wraps an arm around J’onn’s shoulder without a thought, doesn’t notice the way J’onn’s head tilts in subtle mirror to his own as he guides them out of the room.  


“Okay, so there’s this big thing in the US called Thanksgiving. You get together with family, friends, sometimes even strangers, and just eat. Usually there’s football involved but the real event is eating. Cooking for three or four days beforehand and then passing out afterwards. Sometimes your racist aunt says something and everyone starts yelling or grandma forgets her meds and gets naked and everyone starts yelling or someone brings up the football and everyone starts yelling. But everyone eats. Until they can’t. It’s my favorite holiday. I spend it with my Uncle and Aunt back in Central City most years, unless the world is ending. It usually isn’t, even villains take a break around Turkey Day. So this year you can join us! Maybe?”  


And J’onn smiles, an actual full-face crinkly-eye-corners kind of smile. It’s hard to get a smile out of J’onn; the guy’s got resting grim face or something. Not that it’s off-putting: regular-face J’onn is sort of like a present neatly wrapped in neutral-colour paper. But when he smiles properly it’s like opening the present to find it’s full of neutral-colour kittens who look up at you and you see they’ve each got a different colour ribbon around their necks in sweet little bows--  


Oh, Wally’s got it bad. He’s so distracted by this (runaway) train of thought that he has to ask J’onn what he just said.  


“I accept your invitation,” J’onn reiterates patiently.  


“Awesome,” says Wally, feeling a little like he’s repeating himself but unable to determine for sure. Right, it might be pertinent to mention - “Thanksgiving’s not till late November, though. So we’ve still got to decide where we’re going to eat today.”

The knock on the front door is so polite that Wally almost doesn’t hear it over the sound of the pre-game talking heads and Aunt Iris humming in the kitchen. “That must be J’onn!” he shouts at the household in general on the way to the front main entry that only first-time guests try to use. Everyone else just uses the side door, which leads right into the mud room and through to the kitchen beyond.  


There’s a middle aged guy on the stoop; tall, dark skin, really nice bone structure, actually. He doesn't immediately say anything, and it throws Wally for an entire moment before his common sense informs him - in a dry, disconcertingly Batman-esque voice - that of course, J’onn wouldn’t be out on the street arriving at the house of a masked superhero’s family in Manhunter regalia.  


“J'onn, hi!” he chirps, not even bothering to try to conceal how pleased he is to see his friend. “Come in! Turkey’s only got like another hour in the oven, so you’ve arrived at exactly the right time for pre-dinner beers!”  


J’onn does this hesitating wobble on the threshold, which Wally’s having none of, so he takes the martian’s hand and pulls him through to the living room, where Uncle Barry is sprawled in his armchair with his feet up and one finger on the mute button.  


“This is my teammate J’onn who I told you about,” Wally introduces, just like he’d been taught. “J’onn, this is my Uncle Barry.”  


“Pleased to meet you,” says Barry agreeably, “Now I know you’re a shapeshifter so I’m going to say right now that you feel safe to take whatever form you like in this house.”  


“Thank you for having me,” says J’onn, with that tone that Wally knows means J’onn got the phrase out of a book or TV show. He must have gotten good vibes or something off Uncle Barry, cause J’onn nearly immediately readopts the look Wally’s used to seeing on him, minus the costume. He’s still wearing the dark blue polo and jeans, and it makes him seem… softer at the edges.  


“Aunt Iris is in the kitchen. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.” he tugs at J’onn’s arm again, receiving no resistance as he heads into the kitchen. Nearly every surface here is covered in food, or dishes that had been used to make food, or the floury residue of pie-crust rolling, or some combination thereof. In the middle of the homey mess is Aunt Iris, apron on, sleeves rolled up past her elbows and face a little flushed from the heat of the stove.  


“You look beautiful,” calls Wally, just to see her flush a little more and bat at him with the hot mit loosely held in her hand.  


“Flatterer,” she says, laughing. It’s the sound of home.  


“What, I was talking to the pie,” Wally lies, and she mock-growls at him.  


“Wally West, are you going to introduce me to your friend, or just tease me til he retreats back to the sports talk in despair?”  


“J’onn, this is my Aunt Iris. Aunt Iris, my friend J’onn. He loves Oreos,” he adds conspiratorially.

“Finally!” Iris says joyfully, “Someone else who’ll enjoy eating Nana Ross’s blackbottom pie!” She’s heaping mounds of whipped cream on top of the pie even as she speaks, covering a thick layer of sweet meringue and chocolate pudding.

  


Wally mocks affront, throwing a hand against his heart in dismay, “Hey! I always have a slice of that pie! It’s tradition!”

  


Iris cracks up, chuckling, “Even I know this stuff is too rich, and I’m the one who always insists we have it. But don’t you worry J’onn,” she winks and nudges him with an elbow as she walks past to put the pie in the fridge to chill. “We won’t make you finish it if you don’t like it. Barry can barely stand it, and that man will eat anything!”

  


From the living room, Barry exclaims a loud, “Hey!” and Wally takes the chance to go tease him, brushing against J’onn’s shoulder companionably as he passes.

  


“I’m certain I will appreciate the experience.” J’onn demures. He ponders for a moment how much more exuberant humans are during holidays, and why they don’t apply their seemingly boundless enthusiasm to everyday life. Well. Most do not. Some do though, he supposes, watching from across the dining area as Wally pesters his Uncle into a bout of good natured rough housing.

  


“Ah,” he hears Iris exhale softly, and when he turns back to her, she’s got an air of understanding about her person.

  


“I know that look,” Iris tells him, handing him a stack of plates and gesturing towards the table, “You hold onto that.”

  


Once more J’onn nods, for once not trusting himself not to say something lest it be too telling.


End file.
